


the game is how you play (not who wears a ring)

by trustingno1



Series: Season/Series 3 Alternate and Missing Scenes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft gazes at the car. "You know what I can't quite comprehend?" he asks, mock-absently, and John's face twitches with jokes he won't make.</p><p>"Very little," he mumbles, instead, in a way that's terribly reminiscent of Sherlock.</p><p>(Immediately post 3x03).</p>
            </blockquote>





	the game is how you play (not who wears a ring)

**Author's Note:**

> A long overdue conversation between Mycroft and John; no overt relationships, just references to John/Mary and some form of John/Sherlock.

John doubles over as Sherlock disembarks the plane, bracing his hands on his thighs.

"All right?" Sherlock asks, brusquely, fingers curling and uncurling. " _All right_ , John?" and John straightens up, looking dazed.

"He's dead," John says, staring at Sherlock, "Isn't he?" and Sherlock glances at Mycroft, probably unintentionally, for clarification.

"James Moriarty," Mycroft supplies, and Sherlock's forehead furrows.

"What the _hell_ happened on that bloody rooftop?" John asks, rhetorically, and Sherlock holds up his hands.

"Sorry again," he murmurs, automatically, reaching for the phone Mycroft's holding out towards him.

"It's on every screen in the country," he says, as Sherlock studies it - and while he does, Mycroft studies  _Sherlock_ and his red eyes. "Honestly, Sherlock," he says, disapprovingly.

"I wasn't expecting - or hoping - to see you again quite so soon," he bites out, handing the phone back, " _brother dear_."

"How is this  _possible_?" John asks.

"I assume you had something to do with this," Sherlock says, flatly, looking at Mycroft.

"Funny," Mycroft says, sounding anything but amused, "I would've said the same to Miss Morstan."

"Mrs. Watson," John corrects, and Mycroft laughs, indulgently, then, "Wait -  _what?_ and he turns to Mary, who doesn't look away from Mycroft.

"Did you even  _have_ a plan?" Sherlock demands, like he's ignoring their conversation (Mycroft, Mycroft knows better) and Mycroft stares at him for a long moment, something passing between them. "Oh," Sherlock says, almost a little surprised. "But you hate legwork."

"Is it really so unfathomable, Sherlock, that I might not wish to see you dead?" Mycroft asks (ignores Sherlock's indignant "Yes!"). "I'd like a word with John. If you would," it's not a question, and Sherlock stares at his brother for a beat. "Perhaps you could take - Mrs. Watson," he glances at John, briefly, "to the car. We won't be long," he says, in dismissal.

"He can't really be alive," John says, as Sherlock sweeps into the car after Mary. 

"Of course he isn't," Mycroft says, irritably. "I would venture so far as to say this is a  _gift_."

"For Sherlock?" John asks, face creasing in confusion.

"For  _you_ ," Mycroft corrects.

"For-" John puffs out, in a soft breath.

"For you," Mycroft repeats, with extraordinary patience, "from your wife." He pauses. "Are you legally married if she's using an assumed identity?" and John glares at him. "No matter," he adds, mildly.

"You think Mary's giving me - Moriarty?" John squints, and lord, what must it be  _like_ to live with this man?

"No," Mycroft says, less patiently, "She's giving you  _Sherlock_. It's almost - sweet," and his lip curls as he says it.

" _Sweet?_ " John repeats, numbly. "You're saying she was involved in - in Moriarty's ring?"

"You do have some arbitrary moral standards," Mycroft says. Then, "There are few people who were so perfectly positioned to see what - losing - Sherlock once did to you. And how better to ensure his return? It's actually quite clever," he concedes, grudgingly.

"Clever," John repeats, looking stunned, "Yeah, right. OK."

"It's certainly not a traditional gift," Mycroft says, examining the handle of his umbrella, "but the three of you never have been quite  _conventional_ , have you?" He pauses, then, and glances up at John. "Sorry," he amends, unapologetically, "the  _two_ of you. My mistake."

As if on cue -

"Could we possibly get off the tarmac?" Sherlock demands, sticking his head out the car window, "Before everyone changes their minds again?" 

Mycroft waves a hand at him, dismissively, and Sherlock ignores it.

"By the way," he adds, rolling up the window, "John, you're sitting in the middle. I'm too tall and Mary's too pregnant."

John snorts, and Mycroft gazes at the car. "You know what I can't quite comprehend?" he asks, mock-absently, and John's face twitches with jokes he won't make.

"Very little," he mumbles, instead, in a way that's terribly reminiscent of Sherlock.

"You're a  _soldier_ ," Mycroft says, not trying to hide the condescension, "and you didn't notice Sherlock rooting around in your coat for the gun?"

"He wasn't giving me a pat-down," John says, tensing, "He grabbed it from my  _pocket_. And there was a bit going on at the time."

"Hmm," Mycroft hums, non-committal, "And I'd be appalled at how your reflexes have dulled," he lashes out at John, who catches his wrist, easily, "but that's clearly not the case."

"John," Mary calls, as the car door opens, this time, "Is everything OK?"

"Everything's fine," John says, evenly, without turning around.

Sherlock pops his head out of the car again, just behind Mary. "Ordinarily, I'd say have at him, John. But maybe we could continue this elsewhere?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, warningly, and he and Mary disappear back into the car.

John releases Mycroft's wrist. "You think I ... I let him shoot Magnussen?" He huffs out a flat laugh.

"If it means you didn't have to," Mycroft pretends to muse.

"I," John says, "I wouldn't - I didn't-"

"What I do know," Mycroft says, inspecting the stitching of his gloves, "is that your wife pulled a gun on my brother. Twice." John's face twists, something complicated and steeped in sentiment that Mycroft can't quite parse. "Do you know why he lived?" Mycroft pretends to clarify, "The time your wife shot him, I mean."

"Advances in modern medicine," John deadpans, and Mycroft frowns at him.

"His heart stopped,  _Doctor_ Watson. By all accounts, he was clinically dead." 

John glances down. Away. Back at Mycroft.

"He said Mary's name when he woke. He needed to know why." It sounds weak to both of them, so Mycroft chooses to ignore it.

"My brother," Mycroft says, instead, "assures me that you're nowhere near as imbecilic as you seem," his gaze travels over John's tightening face, "I can't say you're helping your case."

John ignores the needling. " If you have something to say, Mycroft -"

"He returned to Baker Street and dragged furniture around your old flat while recovering from a  _bullet to the chest_." John blinks, rapidly. "You can't tell me that he wouldn't live, kill and die for you." A practiced pause, "I mean, he already has."

John ducks his head again, for a long moment. He takes a few deep breaths.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" he finally asks. 

"Stay away from him," Mycroft replies, without hesitation, and John's laugh is dis-believing. "You know absolutely nothing about the woman you call your wife," he continues, "by  _choice_. You have  _no idea_ what you're-" his voice suddenly rougher, he breaks off, and taps the tip of his umbrella against the ground for a moment. Regains control. "He is my  _brother_. Loathe as he is to accept it, there is little I wouldn't do to keep him safe. Keep him from being hurt."

John's gaze is solemn. "I would  _never_ -"

"But you do," Mycroft interrupts, "and you have and you  _will._ I know you're unlikely to take my directive to heart, but if you've any affection for him, John, any at all, you'll show some mercy and  _choose one of them_."

"Choose-" there's understanding dawning on John's face, but he wants to hear Mycroft say it, Mycroft knows.

"Choose your wife," Mycroft says, "and keep my brother safe. As close to heartbroken as I imagine he can feel, but safe," and John flushes at that, just a little, "Or choose Sherlock, John, and alleviate my concern that he'll be gunned down over a Sunday night roast."

The car horn honks, repeatedly, and Mycroft knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that it's not the driver being so hideously indiscreet.

"You know," John says, unevenly. "You know what she's done. Who she's worked for."

Mycroft motions to the car, to signify the end of the conversation. "And you chose not to know," he reminds John, again. "Time to make another choice, John."


End file.
